Chapter 34: The Situation Takes a Strange Turn

Having settled in, Qu Changfeng addressed Zhang Jing, “This man doesn’t even have a name. The so-called witness is problematic, and the shopkeeper has only seen him once, unable to confirm who he is. Who knows what he’s trying to do by concealing his identity?”

With an air of mischief, Zhang Jing replied, “How did you reach the conclusion that he’s hiding his identity? I know him. His name is Ma Weimin.”

Upon hearing this, Ma felt his scalp tingle. Without wasting words, Qu Changfeng immediately entered the name into his laptop to begin the search.

At this point, Ma sensed doom. There would certainly be a record for “Ma Weimin” in the police database, but the photo wouldn’t match him—the real Ma Weimin had died in a car accident. If they determined someone was impersonating an identity, things would get very troublesome.

To Ma’s surprise, the issue of “identity theft” never surfaced. Qu Changfeng had found the results half a minute earlier, and together with Zhang Jing, they studied the computer screen, then glanced at Ma, then back at the screen.

But in the end, they said nothing.

Ma couldn’t fathom what was happening. Half a minute later, Qu Changfeng closed the laptop and resumed the formal proceedings. “Ma Weimin, describe the situation again.”

Ma was bewildered. Qu Changfeng now addressed him as “Ma Weimin,” which seemed to confirm his identity. What was going on?

Seeing him lost in thought, Qu Changfeng impatiently slapped the table. “What are you daydreaming about? Can’t you answer questions? This is a police inquiry.”

Ma finally snapped back, “But I’ve already told you more than once.”

This time, Zhang Jing interjected. “Tell us again. It’s the protocol. It helps us verify the details. If you’re fabricating something, the more you say, the more flaws will show. The more flaws, the worse it is for you. Surely you understand that.”

Qu Changfeng’s eyes darkened, and he felt a hint of jealousy. What was Zhang Jing’s relationship with this guy? Her behavior bordered on leaking information or deliberately going easy on him.

But, faced with Zhang Jing’s beauty and charm, Qu Changfeng could only pretend he hadn’t heard.

Ma had no choice but to recount the story once more.

Zhang Jing listened attentively, occasionally probing for details and making notes.

Qu Changfeng, however, remained unconvinced. “Ma Weimin, your account has issues. You keep emphasizing that you felt threatened and afraid, and that the suspect was armed and robbing you. But now the suspect is lying in the hospital, near death, and we’ve never found the ‘weapon’ you mentioned.” He pointed to the scattered case files. “Where’s the knife? We have all these photos and documents, but there’s no sign of the weapon you described.”

Ma stood up in horror, “Isn’t that your responsibility? Could it really have disappeared?”

Qu Changfeng banged the table and shouted, “Sit down! What are you standing up for?”

Seeing Ma was about to argue, Zhang Jing, knowing he was mentally unbalanced, reminded him, “Ma, sit down. Don’t get agitated. No one’s deliberately setting you up—not in this case, at least. Don’t get emotional. Speak properly, or you’ll suffer for it.”

Despite his anxiety, Ma trusted her this once and sat back down.

From then on, the conversation entered a dead end; nothing more could be extracted. Ma firmly insisted he “felt his life was threatened,” and that there was a weapon, but the case file simply lacked any such evidence.

Regarding this sense of “life-threatening danger,” Zhang Jing understood it best. Qu Changfeng, a playboy raised in sheltered comfort, could never relate.

As a former frontline commando in anti-terror operations, Zhang Jing’s barracks had been attacked, and comrades had died suddenly. Sometimes, missions required days of sleepless vigilance in the mountains, constantly sensing imminent danger. That state was “threat.” It might never actually materialize, but the threat was always present.

During the worst of it, Zhang Jing had led a team to surround and eliminate terrorists, only to find a woman crying among the corpses. Her comrades considered it a rescue and carried her on their backs to take her away.

Who could have imagined the woman would suddenly draw a knife and, without hesitation, stab her comrade right through the back? Zhang Jing had witnessed this firsthand.

Yet, despite such realities, no one would adjust the rules of engagement for such rare cases. After all, without the Red Army, there’d be no evil U.S. Army, right?

The U.S. military killed over three hundred thousand people in Iraq and Afghanistan, losing only a few thousand themselves. In Zhang Jing’s expert view, such casualty ratios were never due to equipment alone, but to far more aggressive and forgiving rules of engagement. Otherwise, their losses would have needed another zero.

This was Zhang Jing’s perspective: one's position determines one’s thinking. Because of her unique background, she had already formed an opinion about this incident from the start, less shrewd than Qu Changfeng. She’d even battered a prosecutor in frustration.

In truth, the female prosecutor wasn’t at fault. Technically speaking, Ma’s actions did have problems, edging dangerously close to intentional harm. But Zhang Jing was neither prosecutor nor judge—she was a soldier, forged in blood and fire, with faith, stance, and a direction, not easily swayed.

Nothing more could be gained from questioning. By procedure, Ma was to be detained and transferred out of the precinct.

Zhang Jing personally escorted him during the handover. Before boarding the vehicle, she asked quietly, “Are you sure it was an armed robbery? If you dare joke with me about this, I’ll make you regret it.”

“It really was. You guys lost the weapon yourselves.” Ma replied carelessly.

“Fine, got it.” Zhang Jing impatiently pushed him into the car.

Afterward, she didn’t travel with Qu Changfeng, Zhen Yuqi, and the others.

It was late, and she hadn’t eaten dinner yet. She made a special trip to the crime scene.

The moment she arrived, she was assaulted by the stench and covered her nose. No wonder the place was so secluded—it was a dead corner, a garbage dump, crawling with rats, cockroaches, and stray dogs. Come nightfall, the area would be littered with the filth and vomit of drunks.

She took a flashlight from her bag, used her shoe to move aside piles of trash, and searched for nearly forty minutes. Zhang Jing finally found a knife.

It was a homemade blade, oddly shaped, designed for both stabbing and slashing open bags—favored by thieves. Zhang Jing was familiar with such tools. The trouble was, it wasn’t necessarily considered a controlled weapon.

If it had been an obviously regulated knife, it would have been more advantageous for Ma.

But finding it was better than not. Zhang Jing donned gloves and decisively sealed it in an evidence bag…

This journey through time was truly exhausting; this body attracted nothing but trouble.

Faced with such events, Ma genuinely struggled to judge whether this body was lucky or unlucky. Was this the so-called intertwining of fortune and misfortune?

In theory, this body was perfect for showing off—encountering beauties and all sorts of wild scenarios. But the downside was that everything became increasingly complicated.

Ma had a feeling he’d be drawn into deeper issues.

He didn’t even mention the bizarre system messages received on four phones simultaneously the previous two times. What unsettled him now was: why did Qu Changfeng’s police database search for “Ma Weimin” yield no problems?

It seemed like he’d passed the test, but that was what truly sent chills down Ma’s spine. Things happened without reason—there must be an explanation. What would come next, he had no idea.

Lost in such musings, Ma found it was already past two in the morning.

Strangely, he heard distinctive footsteps echoing through the cold corridor.

Moments later, the short-haired, poised Zhang Jing walked up to the cell door and looked at Ma.

Ma stood up and asked, “Is it over for me? Give me a hint.”

Zhang Jing turned to the duty officer, “Let him out.”

“Are you sure, Officer Zhang?” the man hesitated.

Zhang Jing nodded and handed over the paperwork.

The so-called paperwork was simply Zhang Jing’s signature. With someone to sign, it was sufficient—this wasn’t a murder case, after all.

So Ma was promptly released.